


It's the Thought That Counts

by poprocksrockstar



Category: Person Of Interest - Fandom
Genre: Bloodplay, Breathplay, M/M, Oral Sex, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 21:28:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poprocksrockstar/pseuds/poprocksrockstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-Shot:  After having his life saved a second time, Logan shows Reese his idea of grattitude.<br/>(THIS IS ACTUALLY DUBCON but I warned it as RAPE/NON-CON to be safe.  Please, READ THE TAGS!  Be sure if you'll be comfortable reading something like this!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's the Thought That Counts

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this almost immediately after watching One Percent. Unfortunately, I lead a pretty busy schedule so my ability to crank out fic is kind of hampered. 
> 
> Pierce is shown to be a masochist (and more or less says so himself) and got really, really friendly with Reese in One Percent, so I don't see this as especially out of the ball park for him. I tried to write Reese as a man who sees himself as straight, and to have him internalize a bit of gay panic. I hope it all works!
> 
> And most of all, I hope anyone who bothers to read this indulgent piece of Kink likes it.

The trees were Autumn-shocked nude, twisting branches grasping towards a greying skyline, and the air was brisk, cold breath nipping at their cheeks; Reese and Finch sat side by side on a wooden bench.  Finch’s jaw was set, twisting a wristwatch with a lofty price tag into glittering, metallic shards under his heel.  The million-dollar timepiece crunched loudly, gears unhinged and splintering across the concrete.  Harold inclined rigidly forward, reaching towards the ground with fingertips grazing across the asphalt.  He trailed along the crumbs of disjointed metal until he found it - a tiny GPS. 

John was silent, examining the implications behind Pierce’s curiosity.   He took a minute as Finch held it up for him to see.  He managed at last slight quirk of his lips: a sardonic, smug grin. 

“It’s the thought that counts,”

Finch rolled his eyes, “I hardly think this is comparable to getting socks on _Christmas._  What exactly do you propose he’s thinking!? ” 

His voice was that of a scolding teacher, asking rhetoric no student packing a prayer could solve.  Reese shrugged, still grinning; Finch had long ago given up on rationalizing the cheeky nature of his cohort’s humor.   Even the Machine probably couldn’t make heads of it.  What exactly _is_ the algorithm for humor to an artificial intelligence that predicts crime?

Despite Logan Pierce’s invasive curiosity, more numbers continued to arrive.  More hearts were fractured, bonds of various affection frayed and mended under Finch and Reese’s omniscience.  Week by week shots were fired, blood was shed and kneecaps were compromised.  Ultimately, Logan Pierce faded into the strange backlog that marked the body of Reese and Finch’s collective history.

 

 

 

********************

 

 

It isn’t more than two months later when Mister Pierce’s social security number makes a foreboding date with Finch’s precious machine.  Harold has nothing but bitter paranoia for Logan’s expensive attempt at dismantling their privacy.  The concern is aptly purged into the horizon as the case picks up it’s heels, hitting fast and hitting _hard_.  With Pierce’s trademark fancy-free vaulting them eyes-deep into danger, time to hem and haw is lost sooner than usual.

John and Logan dodge mafia professionals like hurdles on a racetrack.   John is mechanically efficient, but Logan is terminally reckless.  It is Logan’s fault when they get caught and separated, and it is John’s success when he finds the brunette in an otherwise empty motel room.  The mogul is sedated, passed out face down in a slowly filling bathtub.  His bruised nose bleeds wildly into the water, staining it like Kool-Aid powder blooming in a juice pitcher (hemoglobin flavor).   Reese narrowly dodges giving Logan CPR when the billionaire wakes up on the bathroom tile, coughing roughly.  He retches, chest convulsing as he lurches up red-tinted water on John’s stubble and shirtfront.  Reese wipes his chin with masked indifference, steeling himself against the fluid.

Before the stroke of midnight, Logan’s perpetrators are tracked down– a bitter husband and wife duo from a website that Pierce invested in briefly before cutting his losses and pulling out.  Logan hadn’t been famous at the time, but his unusual, distinguished rise to glory raked their nerves all the same.   Their business model had been doomed from the get-go, but Pierce’s gratingly eccentric nature made him easy to blame when things went sideways.  After having spent prior time in Russia with Pierce, John can almost sympathize.   _Almost._

Husband and Wife are caught at the Airport; Fusco cuffing the guilty while Carter takes Logan’s statement on a skeletal, metal bench outside the motel.   Logan is soaked from head to toe in a disheveled black suit.  He’s in his socks, and he’s snug, swathed in a mostly-dry duvet fetched from his offending room.  His nose is purpling over, bruised deep under the skin, speaking delicately around a split lip.  Bloody tissues are staunched comically up his nostrils, brushing the cleft above his lip when he talks.

John sits alert as a feline at twilight next to Logan, guised as the brunette’s bodyguard.  Once again, John Reese and Joss Carter play strangers; John channels easily the strong-but-silent trope to make it easier.  Logan is still light-headed and delirious, head falling constantly against John’s shoulder as he makes a gauzy try at describing the men who dragged him into the motel room.  Reese grips Logan’s shoulder, holding him tensely upright with the same ease of strength he shows in most physical tasks, almost as if Pierce weighs no more than a child.  He fixes Carter with a terse smile as she offers a smirk in return, brow smugly arched. 

Due is processed, and she dismisses them unceremoniously.   Logan takes the blanket, muttering about generously reimbursing the motel for the duvet as Reese flags down a cab for the both of them, carefully guiding Pierce into the vehicle’s cushy interior.   The Taxi deftly threads the streets of New York, Pierce's sedated haze gradually dulling out. 

John catches Logan’s arm, effortlessly rebalancing him as he stumbles over the curb in front of his condo’s lobby, straightening his posture.  His hold maintains as the younger man weaves damply across the foyer.   A wet trail in left in his wake, leading ominously to the elevator as though some salty sea-beast had trudged through.  Pierce’s sodden loafers are still in the cab, the driver pulling out of the lot with a grin on his face as he stows a dense bundle of damp dollar bills in his pocket.

Inside the condo, Logan makes what barely passes for a beeline to his sofa, plucking the tissues from his nose slowly.  The paper is hard with cemented blood, scratching his nostrils on the way out.   He flings them aside with little regard for where they land as John catches up, heels clicking solidly against the floor.  

Logan sits himself down, and begins to tilt to the side, until his cheek brushes the leather of his couch, Reese’s beltline obstructing his immediate view as the man stands at the other end of the sofa.  His eyes travel upwards towards Reese, who looks down at him with passive concern.   John is first to break the silence.

“You should change out of those clothes.  Take a hot bath so you don’t get sick,” Reese’s voice is it’s usual raspy low whisper, “…Or shower…whichever you prefer.”

John seems as though he had spent the greater portion of his years yelling his vocal cords into fine grit sandpaper.   Logan finds it difficult to imagine his voice getting much louder, and wonders what it sounds like at maximum volume; but for every question Logan has about Reese, he often finds they only splinter off into more and more pestering queries.  The younger man grins bitterly on his own behalf, and suppresses a shiver at the chill of his clothing.

 “You didn’t like the Thank You gift I gave you last time,”

John strides around the sofa, picking up the hotel duvet and settling it over Logan’s shoulders when the man broadcasts no intentions of moving.  He sits himself down on the sofa next to the sandy-haired man, settling on the edge of the seat.  He won’t stay long.

“I think you know it wasn’t entirely sincere,” John rests his elbows over his knees, scoping the condo out as Logan moves to sit back up with a heavy yawn, “Even if it _was_ expensive.”

Logan’s posture remains relaxed, sunken slightly back against the sofa.  His eyes level with John’s shoulders as they had been after he’d choked on naproxen.  Reese found it to be deceptively submissive posture, but hardly ill intentioned. 

“I should have thanked you properly,” He sighs out.  It’s difficult to tell if his guilt is sincere, “Given you a clean watch.”

John tilts his head slightly, his tone subdued and soft, pleased, “Staying alive is thanks enough.  I noticed you changed the locks on your door.   Can a hundred or so of your closest friends still get in?”

Logan licks the split in his lip, a yawn tugging the corners of his mouth when instead he chuckles at his own expense.  John notices now that Logan has been sagging his head forward, looking down through heavy, leaden eyelids.  Initially he’d assumed it was exhaustion, but the reality is clear: Pierce is examining Reese’s legs; John shifts them by degrees. 

Pierce looks up at Reese, shaking his head, “No, no… I clipped it down it to about thirty or so…maybe forty…” John looks towards the ceiling, shrugging.  It’s better odds all the same.

“But I really should thank you properly this time -- before you vanish into the night…” Logan is shifting off the sofa, and at first Reese thinks it’s because of the drugs that the billionaire doesn’t stand upright, instead sinking lower onto the ground as the duvet falls aside.   Logan sits down on his knees, loosening the wet, swollen knot of his tie.

Without standing, John grips Pierce’s bicep to catch him, shifting to pull the young man with gentle firmness to his feet before he’s met with resistance, a deliberate counter to his own weight.  Logan’s hand is on Reese’s knee, pushing his leg open.   Reese lets go of Pierce’s wrist, shifting to stand as Logan attaches a free hand firmly to the man’s belt buckle, giving a hungry pull.  His movements are still dazed and slow, but the purpose is clear and his grip is solid.

“Pierce,” John’s tone is dark.

“Just let me thank you,” he glances up at him, twisting the buckle apart as John’s breath hitches, unwilling to violently extricate the man and too flustered to make an immediate move towards reasonably painless force.   Finally, John’s hand settles on Pierce’s wrist, shaking his head.

“This isn’t the kind of thanks I need from you” John pries a finger loose from his buckle, gently pushing on Pierce’s stubborn wrist, fingers closing over wet fabric.  

“You have to admit…it would be a _lot_ better than the watch…” Logan’s voice trails off, and Reese briefly ponders the mystery of how anyone could be this interested in something so base after being beaten and half-drowned.  Logan mouths at his groin through the fabric of his pants, and he squirms his hips away, leaning back towards the sofa as he pushes Logan’s head aside.  His pondering is forgotten.

He could be violent, or he could be ginger as he pries Logan loose.  He could use enough force to keep Logan back without leaving so much as a scratch.  His wits are more collected than before and he isn’t exactly lacking the skill.    He takes Logan’s wrists, ready to lift the man and simply carry him into his bed and prescribe a cold shower when Logan begins to speak again.  Reese stills.  
  
“If you really wanted me to stop you would have removed me already, ” Logan lets his wrists be held, looking up at the former agent with his trademark smirk, “Wouldn’t give me time to talk,” Pierce _did_ spend a good deal of time gambling with his own life just to see how John worked.   
  
Reese’s face is impassive, but silent with unspoken shock.  Pierce slips a wrist loose and cups his palm below the seam of Reese’s pants, kneading.   Reese is beyond conscious of his own abilities, at how easy it is for him to hold the average man down, to disable the most efficient soldiers from muscling past his defenses.  He isn’t entirely sure if he wants this, but he doesn’t want to question why he hasn’t stopped Logan. 

Reese moves to sit down in thick silence, still holding to Logan’s left wrist in threat, squeezing firmly without enough pressure to cause pain.   He pictures himself breaking the man’s wrist – something he’d easily do to any man he found threatening enough, especially in this precise scenario.   He contemplates throwing him across the floor and leaving him to reel… all because he advanced on him like a rescued prostitute in some pithy B-List movie.

Logan pushes his leg apart again, and John’s face is stoic with control.  His mouth is tense as Pierce leans his head forward, unfastening the front of his pants. Logan bites into the fabric above the button.  He twists his head in an easy pull, tugging the zipper loose with his free hand.  John still has the other one in a vice, literally clinging to the visage of control between them. 

Hips tilt forward slowly on Pierce’s behalf, fabric straining against the inside of his cold, soaked trousers.  It’s damp and uncomfortable, adding salaciously to the thrill of his task.   He mouths again at Reese’s groin, this time through the cloth of his briefs, the flesh on the other side warm and firm.  He leaves a wet trail, reaching below the elastic band of the man’s underwear, exposing Reese’s cock. 

He’s deft with one hand, John squeezes Logan’s wrist tighter, leaning his head back as Pierce’s mouth closes softly over the head of his length.  Reese exhales, abrupt and heavily.  He’s thick in Logan’s mouth, blunt at the back of his throat – not quite a comfortable fit.  There’s a slight tang of sweat on the billionaire’s tongue, but hardly unpleasant for a man who’s spent the entire day running and chasing alike.   Otherwise, John tastes blandly of the same salty hint any other part of his flesh might. 

This does nothing to belay the thrill of Reese, of Reese’s body, or Reese’s silent submission to Logan.  Pierce widens his mouth, licking underneath the taut shaft of skin as he leads his head over Reese’s length.  The muscles in the younger man’s neck twitch reflexively against the increasing pressure against his throat. Moving his head quickly, Pierce settles into a fast rhythm, breathing shallowly through the only nostril he can, the other staunched still with dead blood. 

 Logan is slightly dizzy, gripping John’s knee for support, and John himself is too overwhelmed by the sensations to notice.  His eyes are closed, silently refusing to spare Pierce so much of a glance.  His breathing is fast as Pierce moves across his length in full movements, his mouth pulling his cock forward into the back of his throat, and even further than that after the resisting muscles in his neck give way.  John leans his head back, eyes on the ceiling, legs tense, locked - as though if he doesn’t move his hips he has deniability.

He can hear the sound of Logan working him over as much as he can feel it.  Pierce’s mouth glides smoothly over his straining length, back and forth.  John is aware of the tension in his dick building, the sensation leading all the way down back into his pelvis, deep in the root of his groin. The younger man’s tongue slides, twists and teases as much as the rest of him seems to.  Pierce’s eyes are dreamily closed; his free hand is twisted up in the fabric of John’s pants, digging into his thigh, pulling towards himself urgently.

Reese gathers his wits just barely, letting his eyes rest on the top of Pierce’s sandy, damp hair. He tracks the motions of his head, almost relieved to find that the younger man has shut his eyes.   The look on his face is almost savoury, his mouth reddened, crushing against John’s erection.  He tangles his free hand in the cool, wet tresses of Logan’s hair, pushing on his head as Pierce groans low his approval.   John shuts his eyes again, slackening the hold on the mogul’s wrist.

Pierce opens his mouth wide, taking a breath around the man’s length, looking up at Reese to find his eyes closed and head angled back.  He continues to move his head, licking along the base of Reese’s length as he gasps warm and shallow air against it.   He licks, shoulders heaving in deep motions as he laps along the ridge of Reese’s cock, breathing roughly against the skin. 

Something in Logan’s nose gives way, a shifting deep in the bridge. An itchy, wet tingle rolls down the cleft of his lip, the distinct taste of blood glazing his tongue.   Pierce won’t call it off, too swept up in his reverie: the feeling of John’s thighs framing his shoulders, rock-hard in his mouth… the feeling of _John,_ period.   He pretends not to notice the blood trickling past his lips.  Pierce takes a congested, sniffling breath and swallows crimson into his throat, gathering the man’s length back into his mouth.  

An ache stings through his jaw in resistance, his whole face still throbbing from the latest attempt on his life.   The merciful delay of shock has worn thin, the soreness of his body oozing through his muscles, heavy and exhausting.  His clothing is cold, damp, and if Pierce could smell he would know it stinks faintly of the blood in his motel bath water.    At this point, he isn’t sure he cares – all that matters is that his saliva is tinted red, leaving wet, thick trails along what little skin of Reese’s cock is exposed.   His more pressing concern is that Reese doesn’t open his eyes, and do that thing where he puts Logan’s welfare above his impulsive dalliances.

His teeth part further around the skin, taking the man all the way into the back of his throat with a heavy swallow.   His bruised nose is pressed against the skin of Reese’s pelvis, smudging the man’s skin with color.  He can barely breathe, sniffling awkwardly as his throat flexes around the bluntness.  He feels a motion pushing up towards his face, firm and abrupt as Reese lifts his hips, bucking eagerly into the back of Pierce’s mouth.   When Logan doesn’t gag, John doesn’t question it.  Incensed, he thrusts hard, the bruises across the bridge of Pierce’s nose throbbing.  The movements draw the pain his face into stark relief, soreness blooming under his skin.  Logan clenches his fists, remaining steadfast, determined to see their activity to the end.

Pierce is light-headed and no longer breathing around John’s member: Unlike the nosebleed, this is deliberate.  In Pierce’s mind’s eye, he imagines John overtop of him, running a tube severed from the wall of his mini-bar down his throat, forcing air into his anaphylactic strangled body.  It had hurt, he’d thought he was dying, but once the adrenaline of the memory had dulled, all he kept strong within it was the feeling of John, of this mysterious stranger kneeling overtop of him, pushing him down and guiding him to draw breath again.  Perhaps it was the rush of endorphins that kicked in when he could breathe again that made the memory strangely fond and erotic. 

John groans, the sound leading Pierce away from the ethereal theater of his mind, the much more tangible reality of his “Thank You 2.0” taking precedence.   He sucks tightly, invigorated by the sound and by the rough, wanting movement of Reese’s hips.  Pierce takes the man deeply with each movement. The motions aren’t especially brutal, John consciously scaling back the rocking of his pelvis.  Instead, he remains fast, measured with the same strange ease Pierce has come to expect from Reese.   He supposes in this respect, Reese is holding back for the sake of not aggravating the man’s injuries further; Logan welcomes the idea.

Regardless of his sensed restraint, John arches against his back off the sofa.  His eyes shut tightly as he lets out another, husky moan.  His thighs are tense, and Pierce knowingly works his mouth over him quickly, tongue gliding down his length from the inside of his mouth, all the way to the tension that closes around the head of his cock at the back of Pierce’s throat. 

John is completely taut under Logan’s tongue, and Logan’s erection is straining against the humid insides of his pants.   He rocks his hips forward, angling his legs to grind against the inseam of his waterlogged slacks for some relief, the friction more uncomfortable than helpful, but working all the same.  He continues this motion, slow and rolling. 

His hands twist, one creeping up John’s waist, under his shirt, gripping the skin and pulling towards himself as the man moves hungrily into Pierce’s mouth.   Logan draws his head back abruptly, taking a sudden, heaving breath, his mouth and saliva dyed red.  Spit and precum dribble down his chin, and John lowers his head, opening his eyes and selfishly unwilling to stop Logan now despite the grueling sight of him soaked, bruised and bleeding over his engorged dick.

He watches Logan move his mouth back over his cock, breathing warmly against it and swallowing roughly around the flesh.  Reese tilts his head back again, cupping the back of Logan’s nearly dry head, pushing forward harder than before.  In the back of Pierce’s throat, a gag spasms against the head of John’s length.  Instead of resisting the brunette only lets out a low vocalization from his throat, drawing him further in as he consciously relaxes the muscles in his neck. 

It hits John like a punch to the gut, his abdomen seizing up and the breath leaving his body in a hot rush.  He comes hard, muscles tightening all at once and thrusting faster into Logan’s mouth, grazing the roof of his gums and pushing with blunt force back into his throat in rapid movements.   He comes more than he has in a long time, and Logan swallows wantingly, lapping at the head of his length eagerly from between his lips.

Moving his pelvis is a blur, and Logan shifts his body to compensate for the rougher motions, just barely struggling to follow.  He coughs against the blood and fluid, swallowing with a congested breath. Just as Reese feels as though he could fuck the brunette’s face forever, the sensations become equally more intense and overwhelming as his body begins to relax, the tide of sensations ebbing rapidly. 

He pushes Logan’s head back, at first with force but immediately gaining control of his own strength, reminding himself the man is in the middle of his a nosebleed and slows the movement out steadily, instead keeping hold of Logan’s forehead in case he might topple.  They both catch their breath, at last locking eyes in mutual silence. Pierce’s fingers remain twisted up in Reese’s slacks, but with less insistence.   Logan is sways slightly where he kneels.

John stands up, stepping tentatively around the smaller man to buckle his pants.  Pierce braces his hands against the sofa, Reese’s body heat still stamped on the leather.   He sniffs, wipes his chin and then swallows again, licking at his lips.    Slowly, Logan moves back up on the sofa,  delicately cupping his hands over his nose.   His light-headedness and aches seem more prominent now without the immediate distraction of coercing Reese.  His dick is limp and sore from grinding against the seam of his jeans, and the sense of conquest is diluted by the way he can’t even hold his nose without feeling like his face might cave in. 

He sits there for some time, watching Reese’s backside.  His eyes drift to the floor and in his own haze he doesn’t notice John again until he returns, dropping a pair of Logan’s pajamas next to him, and pressing a neatly folded paper towel into one of his palms.  John sits beside him, gingerly guiding Logan’s hands to cover his nose with the tissue.

“It helps to pinch underneath the bridge of your nose…” His voice is soft, and still slightly breathless, “I suggest you finally change into dry clothes.”

Reese sits with Logan until the bleeding finally subsides, turning his head when the sandy-haired man stands to changes into the pajamas.  Reese debates silently, considering simply turning around and having a second, full on go at the younger man’s body.  The knowledge that Pierce is literally at his physical breaking point keeps him from acting on the fancy (along with some level of bewilderment on his own behalf).  John doesn’t meditate his own motivations for long.

With Pierce dressed, Reese stands, taking the mogul by his arm and steering him firmly into his bedroom, the bed made and the corner pulled back in an obvious hint to Logan.

“I’ll leave you a number to text if there’s any trouble,” Still just barely above a whisper.

Logan slides heavily between the covers, the hue of his skin sickly and laying his face carefully onto the pillow.  He mutters under his breath at Reese, vague, and barely comprehensible.  

“…Thanks… fuh---”   His voice is quiet and the words are swallowed into a yawn, “for everything.”

Reese smiles, but the movement feels odd on his lips.   Their recent activity weighing on him strangely as the reality settles on his shoulders.  His pants are gratefully black, but he can feel the tacky dryness in the fabric from Pierce’s blood, and the leftover stickiness on his satisfied cock.  He can’t tell if he wants to shower or rehash what happened in the comfort of his own bed sheets… or both.

Reese’s heels click softly as he leaves the man’s condo.  The cold, night air rushes into his sinuses as he steps beyond the lintel of the building’s main foyeur.  He watches the cars rush by, an infinite loop of wide-awake New Yorkers; The city worlds more sleepless than Logan Pierce tonight.  

John taps his earpiece, listening for the light feedback of Finch’s microphone whispering softly into his head, “I put the millionaire to bed, Finch.  He’ll be okay.”

Finch’s sigh is deep, “I’m relieved to hear it.  I know it’s unlikely, but was there any threat of him having bugged you at all? ” 

“No, no.  It really is _the thought that counts,_ with him _,_ ” Reese intends it humorously, but the words leave his mouth in a scarcely interrupted lilt, very nearly betraying the secret of his lingering discomfort.

“I’ll take it you meant that as a joke.”

“ _I’m_ relieved.”

Reese switches off the earpiece.  At this point in their working relationship, he’d normally have a “Good Night” reserved for Finch, but the space that hosts such formalities is occupied with his own, bemusing line of thought.   He steps away from the condo’s entrance, and flags down a cab.

He has a much clearer concept of just what it was Pierce was thinking.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
